Chase the Dark
by miserableatworst
Summary: The Cask of Amontillado told from Fortunato's point of view. Were they really ever friends, and what was it like at the end? Rated T to be safe. I'm pretty sure we're all familiar with the content


**A/N: So, we had an assignment in my English class to rewrite a story from a different point of view. I chose The Cask, because it's always been one of my favorite pieces of work, and this was the result. At some point, I may add onto this, elaborating on the emotional part and what Montressor does in the aftermath of his actions, but that relies heavily on how well this chapter goes over. This is all at the moment but I really hope I didn't ruin it too much.**

Montresor removed two flambeaux from their place on the wall, and handed one to me. I struggled to maintain my balance as I followed him down a staircase, as I was still drunk from the wine that I had continuously been drinking for the vast majority of that morning. My mind loosely regarded my old friend imploring me to remain cautious, a suggestion that I took to heart. After some time, which I can only guess was shorter than it seemed, we arrived at the bottom of the staircase.

"The pipe?" I questioned, seeing nothing but the bodies of his ancestors, long since passed, arranged artistically along the walls, in a surprisingly accurate replica of those in Paris.

"It is farther on," he said, then continued with saying something that I did not quite hear, as my attention was focused mostly on an iridescent web-work caking the walls, which I assumed to be niter.  
"Niter?" I asked, gesturing to the walls in question as I held back a cough.

"Niter." he responded, then added, "How long have you had that cough?"  
Ah, so it had not gone unnoticed. Still, I tried in vain to control my hawking, fearing that if I was not well, Montresor would seize the opportunity to meet Luchesi for his opinion, instead.

After a short while, I was finally able to form a reply with the small supply of breath that had worked its way into my lungs. "It's nothing, I assure you," I comforted to the best of my ability.  
"My dear friend," Montresor countered "unfortunately I am forced to disagree with you. You are respected, liked…" here he paused, although his facial expression was hard to read, I assumed it was jealousy, "happy, as I once was." At this, he paused once more, then, as what seemed like an afterthought, he added, "Besides, there is Luchesi."  
"Luchesi," I scoffed, "that ignoramus does not understand the difference between Amontillado and Sherry. Besides, I will not die of a cough."

"True, true," he responded, and offered me another glass of wine, which I graciously accepted.  
"I drink to the buried that repose around us," I said with a slight, nearly inconspicuous raise of my goblet.  
"And I," he said with a small, ominous smirk, "to your long life." Looking back, I should have seen that as a warning sign, but my mind was clouded with many long years of friendship, which sprouted the refusal to believe that Montresor was a murderer.  
I took his arm, albeit a bit wary of his motives at this point; however, as the wine made its way into my system, I lost track of my doubts. Instead, I observed the vaults with a hint of wonder.  
"Your catacombs truly are exquisite," I complimented.  
He smiled, a hint of cockiness evident in his expression. "My family was a great one; my ancestors are numerous."  
I nodded in reply, "Unfortunately, I seem to have forgotten your arms," I admitted, rubbing the back of my neck in an apologetic gesture.  
"Ah, I am not at all angered by that," he said with a shrug, "a man of your status surely has a lot to remember. My arms depict a human foot colored in gold that is crushing a serpent who has its teeth sunk into the heel."  
"And the motto?"  
"Nemo me impune lacessit."

"How lovely," I replied.

We had been walking for quite some time when Montresor spoke again, making me flinch in surprise.  
"Fortunato, the niter increases. Come, we will go back; I will not have you getting sick on my watch."

"Oh, really, it is nothing," I responded, "let us proceed. But first, I will have another draft of Medoc," I replied, quickly emptying the bottle, and throwing it up in a gesture used by the freemasons.  
My friend had a look of confusion on his face, and, although I was lightheaded and admittedly quite drunk, it did not take long for me to know that he was not a member of the masons.  
"You are not of the brotherhood?" I asked.

"How?"

"You are not of the masons?"

"Oh but I am," he replied, producing a trowel, causing me to let out a inebriate laugh.  
"You jest," I sighed, "but let us proceed to the amontillado."

"As you wish," he replied, holding out his arm to me. I leaned heavily against him, as I had slowly been losing the ability to stand on my own. We continued on our route as I struggled to stay upright through the twists and turns of hallways laden with an array of arches in varying heights.  
After quite some time, we arrived at a small crypt, just barely large enough to fit a grown man inside, with a pile of bones lay upon the earth surrounding the niche, gathered in a short mound. Looking back, I realize that this should have been the second warning, as this particular part of the catacombs looked much less extravagant than the rest.  
"In here is the amontillado," he said, with a wave of his hand. I proceeded into the small crevice, only to find my progress stunted by a wall of granite decorated with a short chain and padlock. I was too drunk at the time to notice and my friend seized me, and, within moments, I was secured to the wall in question.

I listened, although dizzy and now terrified, as Montresor spoke from outside the indent in the wall. "Let me implore you to return," he suggested cruelly. "No? Then I am afraid that I must leave you."  
In horror, I watched as he began to build a wall closing up the entrance, or, in my case, exit. Sobering up quickly, I began to yell and struggle, but much to my dismay, the only response was Montresor yelling back at me. My heart grew sick as I realized what he was implying: we were underground, no one would help me.

I bore the rest of the macabre experience in silence, hoping that my friend was doing nothing other than playing a sick joke. It was not until the last tier was in place that I spoke again, in the hope that reminding him of his younger, happier times would snap him out of whatever stupor he was in. He was possesed, I thought, that must have been it. What else could it have been? In vain, I laughed softly, although there was no doubt that he would hear me.  
"A very good joke, my friend, a wonderful jest," I chuckled.  
"The amontillado," was his simple reply.  
"Yes, the amontillado," I replied as my heartbeat quickened; I hoped that fear was not evident in my vocals. "But it is late; will they not be awaiting us, the Lady Fortunato and our other acquaintances? Let us be gone."

"Yes," he sighed, "let us be gone."  
My voice shook with fear as I responded. "For the love of God, Montressor!"

"Yes," he replied, his voice sounding melancholy. "for the love of God." It was then that I truly became sober, that I knew things I never had before. Of course he could not go back on the task at this point, no matter the remorse he felt. I grew sick, my breathing steadied, the darkness taunted me as the last brick was placed in the wall, sealing my fate.  
"Fortunato!" I heard him yell. "Fortunato!"  
"Yes, my friend… it seems this marks the end. I must bid you farewell," I whispered, just for myself to hear. I felt the life drain out of me, and gave up at last.


End file.
